


my genesis, my revelation

by symphorophilia (klismaphilia)



Series: With Dark Lenses [3]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Come Marking, Delusions, Gang Rape, Gangbang, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Inadequate Lubrication, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Psychological Torture, Ritual Public Sex, Scalled Messiah!Blake, Virgin Sacrifice, accidental urination, stab me father for this sacrilegious sin, thats a thing now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 04:16:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10756524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/symphorophilia
Summary: “Your flesh… your purity, this untainted hole…” two fingers ghost along the crease of his twitching rim. Blake hisses, strains away when his cheeks are gently parted, first by one finger and a warm breath. “We must take of it and heal ourselves. You will be our savior, our proof of this penance we have so long waited to endure…my Lord. Let us taste you.”





	my genesis, my revelation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [intoxicated_by_our_lies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intoxicated_by_our_lies/gifts).



> what the fuck am I even doing with my life. I often feel like such a fucked up person for writing this shit but... mmph, it's worth it. the game didn't feel hardcore enough for me, I have to up the ante :) :) next should be a Lynn/Val/Blake fic.

All his bleary mind can process is _pain._ That sharp, rippling agony, settling deep into his bones while his skin twitches, shifting and _stretching_ to accommodate the demand of his captors. His vision, dulled to a deep, spiraling black, flickers through scenes of severed limbs, metal doors lining the sides of a long hallway. Blake’s mind sizzles and sparks at the sounds of rasping whispers, devilish chants, eerie renditions of the lord’s prayer...

And a young girl's laugh.

Blake's eyes fly open, his chest heaving up and down as he greedily attempts to take in as much air as possible. His head is spinning, the uneasy dread of fatigue wearing on his nerves as his eyelashes flutter, his heart speeding. He retches, gasping desperately for breath, his lungs stifled by the tight grasp of a hand around his heart. Nails pierce the inside of his chest, his bones exhausted, worn thin from overuse. A leg kicks out, weakly; Blake swallows the fear in his throat, his choked off gurgle coming to an abrupt halt with fingers tracing along the smooth skin of his jaw.

Hesitantly, Blake tilts his head to the side, a cough expelled with a lingering tang. Blood slips over his lips, wet and glistening, dripping down across his chin. His hand reaches upward, fumbles to secure his glasses on his face... only for something to wrap tight around his wrist and yank his arm away. Up and up it goes, a stiff length of chain winding about his broken body and piercing him at every angle. Blake’s neck is grasped, fingers sliding deep and intrusive into his mouth, pressing over his soft tongue and sinking to the hilt in his throat.

The cameraman gags, violently coughing, his lower limbs flailing even as they too are contained, forced apart and down to be spread wide on the filthy ground beneath him. Gravel digs into his back, his entire form jolting higher, spasming in discontent.

“P-pl…” Blake whimpers as a cloth is forced between his teeth. He pulls away on impulse, attempting to bring his spread thighs closer together with no success. Cool air rushes over his exposed flesh, the firelight of the nearby burning stock casting a brilliant orange glow upon his dappled skin.

“Laird said he would ‘come on a swarm of locusts’,” someone crows, and two hands slide around the flayed skin of Blake’s ribcage, flipping him over only to fist a hand in his hair, pull him up from the ground until his body begins to shake in exertion. Those grimy fingers are everywhere: on his throat, ghosting down the length of his spine, slipping around his chest to thumb at his nipples.

His pitiful, muffled whines are hardly enough to halt those macabre caresses. Blake's throat aches, skin sensitive to each brush of cloth or flesh against it, arching and scrambling against his binds. He can hardly understand it all, caught in the throws of horror and still clinging to the vestiges of sleep, all bloodshot eyes and trembling lips.

“Our savior…” a voice continues, those too large hands holding him still as a statue. “Our _messiah,_ the modern Christ. Come to cleanse us of our sins! They said he would be more beautiful than any woman… pure. _Virginal._ His flesh is a cleanliness among the wretch of our disease. Filthy cocks and cursed wombs that could never be healed!”

A roar pitches in the distance and Blake's awareness begins to taint his consciousness once more. He lurches, back stiff and shoulders locking rigidly in place, his instincts yearning for a release from captivity, needing to _run._ Every inch of his body is cold, his heartbeat spiking in terror. A thin line of sweat dribbles down the thin skin over his protruding vertebrae and he sobs, tears leaking in tormented rivulets down his cheeks.

_No… no, you can't possibly-- you sick fucks! I'm not… just let me go! Let me go, please, let me go, I’m--_

Blake’s words die on his tongue when an ungodly screech severs the hoarseness of his voicebox, his legs unceremoniously pried open as those diseased fingers work in patterns over his cock. He’s being tossed about, shoved onto his aching side as hands creep across his flesh, demanding... _corrupting._ A slime-filled, grimy mouth trails over Blake’s shoulder, down to the small of his back, peppering his skin with damnable licks, nips and bites.

“We need…” the man (for surely, the hardness over his leg could only belong to a man, even without the authoritative pitch of his words just over Blake’s head) continues. “We need to _preserve_ this vessel of holiness. Separate from our sickness, our wretched ichor! The messiah is the only being capable of allowing us redemption.”

The sharp, curved edge of a hand-wrought shiv digs into one of Blake’s hips. Menacing, it holds position along his flesh like a weight meant to stifle him into submission. But it’s the final syllables which slip from his soon-to-be torturer’s mouth, not the shiv, that unnerves him so greatly.

“Your flesh… your _purity,_ this untainted hole…” two fingers ghost along the crease of his twitching rim. Blake hisses, strains away when his cheeks are gently parted, first by one finger and a warm breath. “We must take of it and heal ourselves. You will be our savior, our _proof_ of this penance we have so long waited to endure… my _Lord._ Let us taste you.”

The scarred hands that had chained him down reach out to cup either cheek of Blake’s supple ass, tenderly thumbing circles into his bruised flesh. A cacophonous echo of a laugh bursts from behind him, right into Blake’s panging eardrum.

The vile texture of mucus clings to Blake’s sweat-soaked skin as the monster _spits_ over his hole. Feeble, bony arms flit about his sides, wrapping around his legs with abandon, eager and yearning. There are- _so many_ of them, these... filthy _heretics,_ he considers _,_ with skin lined by open sores, oozing and gushing with fluid.

Blake can’t scream. He _can’t,_ not even when those probing, prying fingers spread the phlegm-saliva across his asshole, pushing slowly but surely into his entrance up to the first knuckle. His body clenches up, tight, protesting any sort of penetration that might come from the encounter. The beasts clinging to his legs are salivating, their own drool sliding over their lips, down their crooked chins and across Blake’s bared form. It’s like venom where it hits, bubbling up and corroding away at his sensitive flesh, distracting enough to be notable… and yet off-putting to the point where he’s more inclined to focus on the sensations emanating from his puckered rear.

“Cleanse me, Lord. Have mercy!” A being shouts, the tormented wail falling over the campsite like a cry of war. Blake is twitching, unfocused; squirming across the ground on his stomach, blood roiling inside him and making him deaf to the world.

A sudden, stabbing _pain_ erupts from within; frenzied and tormenting, sinking deeper and deeper. It’s like being run through with a gilded spear-- each inch forced into him sharp as a dagger, all jagged-edges and mangled metal. Blake’s muscles contract, protesting any movement. His legs fall still, locking into place under the discomfort of his current position. He’s screaming, he realizes; a vague sound somewhere in the distance separate from the fog in his head.

Teeth sink deep into his shoulder, marking the once-flawless flesh of his sternum, his collarbone jutting out at a strange angle when Blake attempts to feel for damage. One hand is tilting his head forward, different than before. Long nails, blackened at the edges from necrosis, scars layered across a pale arm. Something _foul_ is shoved closer to his face... _God, it reeks._ Those fingers are sliding into his mouth, loosening the gag only to press something worse inside. Flesh, hot and wet at the end, and _no, please, don’t-- not my face too, please, Christ, fuck--!_

It seems, suddenly, _sacrilegious_ to be crying out for God in a place like this-- overwrought by religion, playing into the _depravity_ of belief. But Blake can hardly help himself; even if he hasn’t believed since his youth, since he’d seen Jessica’s hanging corpse, realized _what they’d done to her, how easily it could’ve been him… Lynn…_

 _“Uhn--nngh--”_ he breathes around the stiffened length, thrusting without gentility deep into his throat, each push forward causing his vision to tint with black as his gag reflex is triggered. Over and over again, Blake gasps for breath, but there’s an abrupt _smack_ from behind and his body surges forward, the world tilting upside down. He can feel each spark of radiating pain, underlain with the most irreverent _pleasure_ he’s ever known. It’s… _revolting,_ the response being dragged from his physical form as his cock stands hard between his red-soaked thighs, being spread open and _taken_ without remorse.

His hole is tearing, the thin skin seeping trails of red-hot blood as the scalled outcast prods at him, uses him, _comes_ in him. His seed leaks out around his own cock as the assault on Blake’s face comes to a jarring pause, a fist in his hair, smacking him upside the head. A foot presses hard between his shoulder blades, humbling his body and battering him back into submission.

His body bends under the pressure, mud smeared across his sides and into the open wounds. Imprints of hands, of feet and weapons and _shame,_ stain him in full. Blake can’t sense it anymore, the defilement, only knows that this is _unforgivable,_ that this is going to break him. He attempts to raise himself from the ground, wobbly legs and numb feet-- can’t do it when he’s seized once more and flung to the dirt on his back.

His mouth is assaulted once more, deep and frenetic, with speedy, shuddering thrusts as the man above his face teeters on the edge of release. Blake can’t feel his face when he cries, pulls feebly at his restraints, his breath speeding as he gasps for air _t_ _oo soon._ The hot, _venomous_ taint of release across his gullet, forcibly spilled down his throat makes him choke. Sickly fluid, ruining him, _fuck, please, let me go, I just want to find Lynn, please, I’ll never come here again, if only…_

His legs seem ever weaker, especially when they are thrown upward over the shoulders of a beastly-looking man, the monster’s back hunched low as he watches him with a glassy stare. There’s no escape from the assault, on his sides, from before him nor from behind, below nor above; Blake twitches. Something rustles to his left and his aching vessel is abruptly pried open once more. These jabs are shallow and separate, hardly felt amongst what must remain of his insides. A bloody, gushing mess, but there’s something slick and wet, lapping at his stomach, down below, sliding across the inside of his thighs and-- _god, don’t._

His bladder seems to give at once, his erection flagging underneath the torment of sensation as Blake soils himself. He can’t _help_ it, being kept like this, a _toy_ for a cult of lunatics. The hunched creature before him spends himself once again, across Blake’s rear and striping over his legs, spurts of blotted yellow-white streaking his skin. His hips push upward, protesting his current state. Automatic, he knows, for his conscious is muddled and uncertain.

A small being leans over him from atop the hunchback’s shoulder. Its hands spread, wide, out to the air, holding a communion for the crowd. When the thing speaks, Blake cannot make sense of the words-- he only knows that it will be the last thing he hears, the derisive, insane words of his rapist, his tormenter, his _murderer._

“Yes… yes, _look at him,_ our messiah! So beautiful, so _chaste,_ cleansing us of our sin! We shall no longer be _sickly._ We shall no longer be… _scalled.”_ The small one-a man, Blake wonders, though he is hardly anything now-strokes an arm across his chest, up to Blake’s stiff shoulders and his bound wrists. The soft grip, nearly venerating, tangles in his hair as a wet cloth presses to his cheeks, his eyes. Blake mumbles senselessly into the fabric, observes as it moves across his face and trails over his lips, bitten raw and cracked with dryness.

“Let us keep our savior, let him be revered! We are not beyond the reach of the Lord. Christ will show us mercy.” The speaker coughs, croaking as his shadow casts over the small village before him. “Hang him up. Let them see... we’ve got to get him on that cross. Our testament…”

Blake is lifted, tossed about a cultist’s shoulder. His spinning head smacks into a rock as they position him; he thinks it might be busted-open, imagines his skull leaking blood, the inner grey-matter of his brain falling out when the figure deigns to move him. Exhausted, he falters, prone form stilling as one of the captors wrenches his arms up. The bindings slung around his arms sink more pressingly into his skin as he is set down on solid ground, then dragged up to his knees by that chain about his purpling wrists.

Reality seems far away, some... distant, half-formed memory just beyond his reach. Blake’s mind hones in on the spiraling, vivid shapes of the thrall-like figures around him. They are cheering and weeping, both scornful and joyous, waiting to assault his unconscious mind as well as his physical form. _Weak,_ he tells himself, _depraved, demented, unholy._

He thinks, once more, of the rosary kept in his pocket-- of Jessica, that day, in the janitor’s closet, leaning over him with a guileless smile as the watchful eyes of Christ bored into them from the wall above.

He thinks of sodomy, of bodily sin and his own wickedness, and he wonders if there is such a thing as a God after all. Certainly there is no _heaven,_ not when Blake’s been cast straight into a worldly hell, claimed by it so thoroughly his mind does not allow for reprieve.

Redemption is a falsehood. Perhaps Blake’s torture serves as a Revelation, a tribune for his own naïveté, a personal guide to the realities of torture…

Or perhaps this brutality, this _rape,_ is only a Genesis to his suffering.


End file.
